


The Night We Met

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Canon killed us all, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Family, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, I Made Myself Cry, Sadness, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 16:11:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18525028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: Arthur should have seen it coming long before it got this bad. He just never thought it would end like this. Not to the men he had called family.





	The Night We Met

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so so much for all the amazing requests on my last story! I haven't gotten a chance to respond to the comments, but I absolutely love all of them and plan to do as many as I can! I've been working on this for a little while now, so hopefully this will tide you over until I get something longer finished.  
> Thank you for reading!!  
> Song is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQh9eDcS1-0&list=RD4AZjJEYozKc&index=6

_ I am not the only traveler _

 

Cornwall’s factory was dark, littered with shadows, soulless, like so much of the world had turned out to be. Cold, like the aching in Arthur’s weakening bones, lifeless, like the breaking soul of his family. 

He’d been here once before, but the place was still strange and unfamiliar, though no longer run by Leviticus Cornwall, the man’s blood still staining the streets, butchered without warning like so many others. 

Arthur forced himself to walk faster, following a few paces behind Dutch, knowing their success couldn’t possibly be this simple. This would change nothing. It wouldn’t be enough. 

Arthur felt like he was walking with a stranger. 

The soldiers had burst through the doors without warning, guns ready, and they’d been forced to flee, sprinting down the dark corridor in the final stretch to the back door. 

For a moment, Arthur was almost able to fool himself into thinking things were better, the situation so familiar it left him longing for the days when it had just been the three of them, he and Dutch and Hosea, alive and filled with so much love and trust for each other there was no room for questions or doubts. 

Everything had happened in a blur, the smoke blinding him in the split second it took to end up on his back, struggling to breathe around infected lungs, nearing soldiers shouting around him. 

And then there had been a man on top of him, the silver blade of his knife plunging towards Arthur’s chest.

 

_ Who has not repaid his debt  _

 

“Arthur,” Dutch had said, his words wrapping around Arthur and squeezing, holding him in place as he waited, frozen. “Do you have my back?” 

For so long, it had never been a question. Never. 

Trusting Dutch was like breathing. Standing by his side was what kept his heart beating. It was his purpose, what he’d done seamlessly for so many years. Dutch had pulled him off the street, given him something to live for. 

And he’d done all he could to repay him. Arthur had given him everything. And he told himself he’d continue to try, to work for the future Dutch so desperately wanted. 

But deep down, the silenced part of his brain was breaking through, and he suddenly wasn’t sure he could keep his promise. 

 

_ I’ve been searching for a trail to follow again  _

Dutch had asked for loyalty, and in return had given Arthur a family. 

There was something between the three of them Arthur was sure he had never felt before, not in his short time living on the streets, and not with those dark years with his father. 

It was love, he supposed, a fierce sense of unwavering loyalty. Protection and safety. They were what a family was supposed to be, unconditional and warm. 

 

_ Take me back to the night we met  _

On the streets he’d been alone, an unwanted orphan, cold and starving, destined to waste away with no one to care. 

Arthur didn’t know what Dutch had seen in the boy he’d found on the streets, doubted he ever would, but as time went on he found it didn’t matter. 

He meant something to someone. For the first time, he was worth something, loved by someone, seen by someone. It made the memories of his father fade away. He had someone worth caring about.

Arthur’s loyalty never wavered, never second-guessed his promise to his found family, and Dutch never had a reason to question it, never had a reason to doubt the eager, praise-hungry boy he was raising to be a man. 

They were family, a real family, and Arthur was convinced they always would be. 

 

_ And then I can tell myself what the hell I’m supposed to do  _

Why on earth they were trusting someone like Angelo Bronte, the man who had blatantly kidnapped little Jack Marston, Arthur had no idea. John didn’t seem to like it any more than he did, and Hosea had been practically sulking since the mayor’s party. 

There was a deep spark of fiery anger set in Dutch’s eyes, sparking to life from the moment they’d stepped into the heavy, polluted air of Saint Denis. 

The city seemed to corrupt good men, turn them against themselves in favor of greed and money. Maybe it was bound to corrupt them, too. 

But there was money in the trolley station, the first real lead they had, and Arthur found himself nodding along to another one of Dutch’s plans, losing his worries in the other man’s confidence.  

 

_ And then I can tell myself _

 

“You’ll ride with me?” Dutch asked. It was hardly a question, more of a clarification, one Arthur needed less than a heartbeat to answer. 

“Always.” 

 

_ Not to ride along with you _

 

It had been a trap,  _ another  _ trap. Angelo Bronte had lied through his teeth about an easy, prosperous job at the trolley station, and they’d fallen for it like the desperate criminals they had become.

“Dutch!” 

Dutch was on the ground, collapsing on his side a few paces from the overthrown trolley, crimson stained hands clutching his bleeding head, eyes squeezed shut through the pain. 

He wasn’t getting up, the heavy flow of blood seeping through his fingers. Arthur wanted to go to him, to assess the damage for himself, but the nearing gunshots were only getting louder, and he turned his attention to the firing lawmen. 

They never did find the time to get Dutch to a doctor. 

 

_ I had all and then most of you  _

 

“You know something, Arthur?” 

Arthur stopped with a sigh, arms aching from the weight of the load he was carrying across their new camp, late afternoon sun beaming down on the crisp green clearing. 

Dutch had been sitting outside his tent, opened book in his lap, that glint in his eye he had whenever he was lost in deep thought, aching to share with whoever happened to be closest. 

“What?” he asked, humoring him, preparing himself for another speil of a bright future they couldn’t have. It would only make the thought of failure more painful. 

“You were always special to me,” Dutch said, fond and earnest, reminding Arthur of the protective young man he’d met as a boy all those years ago. “All these things we’ve done...good things...bad things...all these people we’ve seen pass on. You were always special.” 

 

_ Some and now none of you  _

 

Dutch’s words always seemed to open something in Arthur, set something loose in his chest, heal the scars stitched and woven with hurt and betrayal. 

Dutch’s words made him think that they could have a chance, that somehow, there’s a possibility they’ll make it. That Dutch’s assurances aren’t just for show. 

“Are we living or dying this time?” Arthur asked, knowing Dutch’s answer wouldn’t matter. The world was changing, and it would be like diverting a river to get Dutch to change along with it. 

“I guess we’ll see.” 

 

_ Take me back to the night we met  _

 

“I’m an old outlaw,” he heard Dutch say one night, the camp quieting down, the moon illuminating the tents. He sounded tired, sorrowful, resigned to the words he was saying. “I’m prepared to go quietly.” 

Dutch saw the way the world was heading. Despite the mask of hope he put on for the others, Arthur hadn’t been alone in his doubt. Not when Dutch’s mind had been his own. 

He’d have killed for a quiet ending. 

 

_ I don’t know what I’m supposed to do  _

 

It had been too long since Hosea had laughed. There had been a cloud over him since Blackwater, a rift forming in between him and Dutch. The older man’s weariness was showing, his coughs growing worse, his eyes defeated and sad. 

But sitting out in the open water, the sky a sparkling blue, laughing along with his family over past memories, Arthur finally began to recognize him again. 

The air was lighter away from camp, letting them all forget the weight they were forced to carry for the time being. 

Reveling in their stories almost made Arthur feel like a child again, following the two outlaws to the ends of the earth. Back when they were family, when nothing would come in between them. Arthur found himself holding onto the belief that nothing had changed. 

 

_ Haunted by the ghost of you  _

 

Arthur didn’t even get the chance to see Hosea’s body hit the ground. 

He heard the gunshot, heard the strangled scream and saw the man’s face twist in pain, the blood splatter across his shirt, but he’d already ducked back inside by the time Hosea had slammed into the street, unmoving. 

He’d caught a glimpse of the body as he’d fled, heart breaking as bile rose in his throat, suddenly feeling like he’d been dunked in the ocean, a rope squeezing around his neck. 

Arthur had seen the hurt in Dutch’s eyes, the dark sadness that had washed over him, shattering him, the helplessness and defeat making Arthur dizzy, because for the first time, he saw it. 

Dutch didn’t know what to do. Perhaps he never had, always relying on the people around him, unable to function without their faith holding him up. 

And now he’d lost Hosea, the first man he’d learned to trust, to love, torn apart right in front of him, unable to even meet his eyes as he took his last breath. 

 

_ Oh, take me back to the night we met  _

 

“I always know,” Dutch had declared, finally standing from the back of their stolen boat, watching as Arthur and Hosea had gathered up the sack of fish. “Whenever I got you two by my side...things are gonna be just fine.” 

Arthur and Hosea had shared a glance as they turned back to the new camp, a bitter, knowing determination. 

They wouldn’t be ok, not with the way things were heading, but they wouldn’t go anywhere. No matter how it ended, they’d be at Dutch’s side until the end.

 

_ When the night was full of terrors  _

 

“Why don’t I race you back to camp?” 

It had been such an innocent suggestion, Dutch’s voice so light and carefree, another reminder of the freedom they’d once had. The freedom they were trying so desperately to hold on to. 

Dutch had been the one to teach him to ride, the one to buy Arthur his first horse. Dutch had taught him everything, given him everything, and Arthur couldn’t understand the surfacing voice in the back of his head, whispering awakening doubts he’d never had.

 

_ And your eyes were filled with tears _

 

Dutch had been there while they’d stitched up Arthur’s shoulder, helping as much as he could to keep the bullet wound from getting infected and lower his fever. 

Arthur had clung to him, hearing, yet not quite registering his words, Colm’s voice still ringing in his ears, the promise of the fall of his family making him cold, making him shiver harder. 

Everything hurt. Everything was wet with blood. He thought he might be crying, but there was no way to be sure. Dutch didn’t seem to mind, just held him tighter and whispered quiet reassurances and apologies. 

It helped, kept him grounded, but the nagging voice in the back of his head was growing louder, and he found himself listening to its doubts. 

If he hadn’t made it out himself, would anyone have come for him? Would they even look? 

 

_ When you had not touched me yet  _

 

“I suspect you’ll betray me in the end.” 

Arthur had stopped, turning in the direction of the cold words, meeting Dutch’s eyes in the dim moonlight, the night almost too dark to make anything out. The camp was empty, silent, Arthur quietly moving back to his tent after a particularly draining job. 

Dutch was watching him, still awake in the late hours, still and expressionless. “You seem like the type.” 

“That’s…” Arthur paused, swallowing, Dutch’s words tearing him apart piece by piece. “That’s an awful thing to say, Dutch.” 

They were silent a moment, unmoving, until Dutch finally nodded, breaking the trance as he stood. 

“Sorry,” he said, hardly sounding like he meant it. “I think I’m just tired.” 

Arthur watched him curiously, wondering what he could have possibly done wrong. 

He thought about pushing, desperately needing to know what he meant. But Dutch was already retreating to his tent without another word, rubbing at his face, and Arthur let him go. 

 

_ Take me back to the night we met  _

 

“Oh, and here’s the  _ other  _ one!” 

Dutch’s snarl made Arthur falter, chest growing cold as he fought back another coughing fit, briefly meeting John’s gaze, shocked and angry. 

Arthur just felt hollow, no longer able to say he was surprised. It didn’t make it hurt any less. 

“I raised you boys like sons, and  _ this  _ is how you repay me?” Dutch was screaming, long past listening to himself, long past seeing the way he was tearing the remains of his family apart. 

“Dutch--” John tried, still possessing the energy Arthur had lost long ago. There was so little to keep him going at this point, he wasn’t entirely sure why he still tried. 

“Goddamn snakes!” 

Dutch was gone before either of them could argue, to pointlessly try and convince him otherwise, retreating back to his tent, back to Micah, drifting further and further away from what had been important for so many years. 

 

_ I don’t know what I’m supposed to do _

 

There had been no way for him to win that race. Not that it mattered. The air had been light, carefree, the new camp beginning to feel like home for the first time since fleeing Horseshoe Overlook, and Dutch’s smile had been real when Arthur dismounted just seconds after him. 

The smug boasts and teases had only been for show, Arthur feeling weightless with hope when he saw the pride and affection in Dutch’s eyes, heart skipping a beat when Dutch clasped his shoulder, making him feel like a child. 

“I was going to say you’re like a son to me,” Dutch had said. “But you’re more than that.”   

 

_ Haunted by the ghost of you  _

 

“Dutch!” 

The soldier was straddling him, keeping him pinned to the ground, the knife inching closer and closer to his chest. Arthur was too weak to fight back, fear and panic rising with each second he was left alone. 

“Dutch, I need help!” 

The room was still stained in smoke, everything blurry and hazy, Arthur’s eyes stinging as he frantically scanned the factory.

Dutch was where he’d left him, standing in front of the exit with his guns in his hands, watching Arthur struggle, his face hidden by smoke. 

“Dutch!” 

It was like his world came crashing down, everything shattering around him as he watched Dutch take a step back, hands at his sides, ignoring Arthur’s calls. 

Dutch made his choice, turning away and disappearing through the door, leaving Arthur behind. 

 

_ Take me back to the night we met  _


End file.
